Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [48]
“I know who they are,” Meadows said dully.
“What!” Nelson sat down again quickly.
“They were at the dog track with Mono. It was pretty obvious who was boss.”
“Do you know their names?”
“No.”
“Could you describe them?”
“Yes.”
Nelson was excited now. “Madre de Dios, tell me what they look like!”
“Why should I?”
Nelson slapped his thigh in exasperation. He leaned back in the chair and made a ceremony of relighting his cigar.
“I don’t blame you, I guess. Use what you know when you need it most. Maybe you can talk to the state’s attorney.”
Nelson puffed the cigar. Meadows coughed. Neither spoke.
Meadows abandoned the idea of flight: too risky. There had to be some other way, some way out. He thought frantically.
Nelson, too, was thinking: To arrest Meadows would please only Pincus and the police department gnomes who assembled crime statistics. Pobre cabrón. The gnomes should give medals to citizens who kill killers.… He came to a decision. Screw Pincus and the gnomes. Meadows could recognize Mono’s companions. That mattered most.
“You know, amigo, you ruined a three-month investigation by killing that scumbag. If you could help me get things back on the track, maybe we could strike a deal.”
“I’m not interested,” Meadows said quickly, but Nelson saw the flash in the architect’s eye.
“Even if we could agree that Mono’s death goes into the books as one more unsolved drug murder?” Nelson said.
“I didn’t murder anybody,” Meadows replied stubbornly.
“Let’s say I believe you. And then let’s say as a token of good will you do me a favor.”
Nelson had Meadows’s attention now. He could almost see the gray cells churning back from the brink of despair.
“Then?”
“Then you go your way and I go mine. Mono’s dead. Nobody knows who did it. Too bad. Que descanse en paz.”
“Just like that,” Meadows said.
“Well, a few people in the department would have to know that while one of my sources was working for me, he happened to kill el Mono—and I’d have to sit on Pincus. But that’s all. Nobody in the department will weep for him.”
“Yeah, sure. And whose word would I have for all that?”
“Mine.”
“Yours!”
Nelson fought against the color that rose to his cheeks. He was close now. Patience.
“Maybe it’s not much.” Nelson contrived a shallow smile. “But then”—hard now, to the gut—“have you got anything better, amigo?”
Meadows stared at the yellowed ceiling. He could see himself in handcuffs and, later, as the star attraction in some pompous courtroom. He could see himself stuffed with cocaine and swinging from a varnished wooden beam. No, he had nothing better than the cocky Cuban cop, even if that meant he had nothing. Meadows was tired of being punched. Given a little rope, he might find a way to punch back.
“What do you want?”
“Tell me about those men you saw with Mono. Could you sketch them, like you did Mono?”
“No. It was Mono who interested me.”
“Would they recognize you?”
Meadows mentally reran the scene at the dog track. The lighting had not been good. There had been a crowd. The thugs were not likely to have picked him out. He meant nothing to them.
“They might, but I doubt it.”
Nelson sprang quickly from the chair.
“OK, you’ve got a deal. Get up. You’ve got a tie, haven’t you? Take a shower first; you stink of sweat.”
Cold water helped Meadows restore his equilibrium. Nelson wanted him to do something that was reckless. Surely he would not be content with a description of the junior killers or even a sketch. Nelson would want more, much more.
The architect in Meadows pleaded for caution. It was stupid to deal with the devil, even if he was not lying. Take your chances on the courts. It was self-defense.
And fatal not to deal with him, said the bruised and terrified man that was also Meadows. What difference can it make? A drowning man doesn’t care how deep the water is.
When Meadows emerged from the shower, there were no preliminaries.
“The deal is this. I will deposit you, tonight, in a public place where Mono’s friends will be among several